Surviving the Mountain
by chocolate cake with sprinkles
Summary: Gregor Clegane's wife and brother become friends and help each other survive his abuse. Takes place after Sandor got his scars, but before he lost all his idealism. Contains mentions of abuse, neglect, sexual harassment, resulting mental disorders, and potty mouth language.
1. Chapter 1

Gregor Clegane found a bride.

It was their father, of course, that had found the girl and worked an arrangement with her father, but she was marrying Gregor.

And Sandor was not happy about it.

It seemed so unfair to him that for all the bad Gregor had done, he was rewarded with a young woman to torment. She was a bastard girl, named Joanne Hill, after Tywin Lannister's late lady wife. Her father was of a branch of some noble family or other, near extinct and bankrupt until seven years ago, when he found a larger bed of pearls than had ever been recorded in history. He hadn't been able to make a good marriage for her until she caught Gregor's eye. Gregor didn't care for her, but her father's newfound wealth was impressive. Her father liked how Tywin Lannister was impressed with Gregor's potential as a guard. A deal was struck. Joanne would marry into a favorable position and the Clegane household would increase their wealth.

Joanne Hill was not a stunning woman. She was too skinny for her average height and her arms hung, lanky and awkward. Her skin was heavily freckled and sunburned, her jaw was square, her cheekbones were flat as were her cheeks, her nose was too wide, and she had the most masculine chin and the thinnest lips Sandor had ever seen on a woman. He knew he was in no position to call anyone ugly or plain, but if she had shorter hair and a flatter bust, she would look like a boy in a gown. At least she had her eyes. Doe's eyes, the color of a fawn's back. And a long, slender neck. _Easier to grab_, he thought to himself.

At the wedding, that neck was adorned with a three strand pearl choker. They were all the exact same shade, shape, and size, and made her skin look even darker and more uneven than it was. They matched the ivory silk of her gown, which had its own pearls, the same shade. _How many orphans would that dress feed?_ Sandor thought to himself. The gown only served to display her father's massive coffers. More like than not, once it was torn off of her it would become a heap of expensive rags too damaged to be mended back into a dress. Such an extravagant waste, it could easily be meant for Tywin Lannister's daughter.

Her hair was down. The locks at her temples were pulled back and braided to keep them out of her face. It was nothing like the thick plait her father described her with, and did nothing to help her plainness. It was brown, somewhere between the color of chestnuts and bronze. Not very shiny. Perhaps it would have looked better in a braid.

She was smiling. Whether the poor thing was ignorant of Gregor's true character or she was being polite was not initially clear. After watching her a while, Sandor confirmed it was the former. Her smile remained even when she looked away from others. She was actually happy about this marriage. Poor dumb thing.

Her father was quite happy as well. Had either of them met Gregor? If they had, they wouldn't have been so cheery, or even agreed to this match. He would beat her when he was angry, destroy her possessions when he was jealous, and hold her down when he wanted something to fuck. If he grew bored of her, he might let his friends have a go at her. Or, might be, he'd tear her clothes off in front of them and have her sit in his lap, like a little spaniel. He'd even pet her.

Sandor clenched his teeth at the idea. Hateful as he was, he kept himself controlled, and the ceremony went on without incident. The bride's father payed for the feast. It all smelled wonderful: the rosemary, garlic, basil, thyme, all dancing among the scents of warm bread, roast poultry, various soups, cheeses, fresh greens, and wine. Sandor didn't eat a crumb or drink a drop. He raised no glass to his brother's health, and tipped his over when others did.

Hardly anyone noticed, of course, except the serving maids. They walked on eggshells around him, as they did with all the Cleganes. The younger girls would even tremble when they stepped within grabbing distance. Sandor tried to soften his face when they were around. He never wanted to scare anyone. It never did any good because none of them looked him in the face. There were times he wanted to put his hand on the wrist of one of the serving girls, look her in the eye, and tell her, "I'm not my brother. I would never hurt you. Any of you."

He never could, though. Earlier in the year, he trod on the hem of one of their skirts by mistake. The girl's entire body stiffened as she dropped the armful of dishes she was carrying. Her hands shook as she gathered them together. When Sandor tried to help, she looked away. She quickly took everything in her arms and as she stood up he could see tears rolling down her cheeks. Still not looking his way, she nodded and gave a quick "Sorry, m'lord" and scurried away. That night, he learned the servants locked their doors and begged the Maiden to keep their daughters safe from Gregor.

_Now they'll all pray that he's happy enough with his wife,_ he thought bitterly.

And, as if the gods meant to make a point, Gregor's friends called for a bedding that moment. Joanne unclasped her necklace to prevent some drunken brute from snapping it. The first to her grabbed her ankles, and the men's hands worked their way up her body as they carried her to Gregor's bed, tearing at that ridiculously expensive dress all the way there. Sandor and Gregor's father was among them, but Sandor was not. That part of the ceremony always felt wrong to him; maidens getting their clothes torn off by strangers. The girl already had to fuck a man she didn't truly know.

Gregor needed help. Tradition called for the women present to undress the bridegroom. There were no female guests. The men and women of the village knew the reputation Gregor and his company earned. The servant girls had to help him to his bed. He was the tallest man in all of Westeros, and heavier than a mountain, not to mention he was drunk as a sailor. It took four girls on both sides of him to just keep him upright. They unlaced while struggling to keep him up and moving.

Gregor, in turn, pawed at the girls and tried to rip the laces out of their bodices. At any other wedding, this might have been playful joking on both sides. But Gregor was rough and serious, and the girls were terrified.

There was a lot of yelling and laughter at Gregor's door as the maids undoubtedly crept away. Sandor kept himself away and drank his father's abandoned wine. He was angry, and he didn't want blood on his hands yet. He was only eleven years old.

Gregor's friends continued to yell their vulgar jokes through the door. The lord of the keep hurt his wrist, and went to find help from the maester. The guests gradually trickled away when Gregor yelled something angry and unintelligible back. Then they turned their attention to the maids. They touched the girls, and made lewd comments, and held them by their wrists so they couldn't leave. One of them, a boy of fourteen named Petyr, even held a maid into his lap and threatened to kill her if she didn't drink the wine he poured her or let him touch her as he liked. _Her parents begged the gods not to let this happen to her._ Sandor couldn't contain his anger any longer. He emptied his cup and threw it at the back of Petyr's head.

He pushed the girl off of him as he stood and demanded who threw it at him. The maid took advantage of the shift of attention and held her bodice closed while she scurried away. Meanwhile, everyone else was staring at Sandor in disbelief and the Petyr narrowed his eyes.

"You're lucky Lannister likes your papa and your brother, boy, else no one'd miss you if you died."

"No one would miss you, whoreson," Sandor replied. "Some might thank me."

"Watch your tongue, Clegane. Outside these walls you're just a little shit with a gnarled face."

"Not even Gregor would miss you. He'd kill you himself if it meant gold or knighthood or a pretty girl to fuck. You do anything to his bride that he wouldn't like? Then you should leave soon as you can. Guest right doesn't mean much to my brother."

Petyr looked nervous, and left the hall. The guests' merriment died down after that and one by one, they drifted away.

The maids started to clean up the dishes, but Sandor remained. As they gathered up the plates at his table, a girl placed an orange in front of him.

"Last one in the kitchens, m'lord," she informed him. "A prize truly fit for a hero."

As she turned to walk away, he seized her hand. She jolted, so he must have been rougher than he intended.

"I'm not a hero," he told her as he looked up. It was the girl he saved from Petyr. He looked in her eyes. They were green.

She darted her eyes down. "I only meant to thank m'lord," she apologized. Sandor spoke before she could excuse herself.

"Does this happen often?" He kept looking her in the face. He wanted to see the green of her eyes again.

But they stayed down as she answered. "Not terribly." She was growing anxious and tried to pull her arm back. "If it please m'lord-"

"Do you-" Sandor cut her off. His mind told him to be chivalrous, like the knights in the stories. He knew that if it weren't for an angry lioness from his grandfather's time, a girl like her would be his friend, or perhaps sweetheart. "Do you need a champion?"

"M'lord?" There they were. Those eyes shone like emeralds.

"Do you need one to fight for you; to defend your life and honor?"

The girl was dumbstruck and looked frightened. She was trying to yank her arm from his grip, begging him, "Please, m'lord, I must-"

"You'd never need fear me, or fear at all," he promised. "I would keep you safe. From men. From Gregor, Petyr, anyone." He let go of her, only just realizing he clamped his other hand on her wrist. "I can keep you safe, from all of them." He knelt. "If you let me."

It was her turn to take his hand. "Of course, m'lord."

"You can call me Sandor, if you like. Tell me your name."

She smiled a darling smile and told him. "Bess."

He and Bess had gotten to know each other better. She was twelve years old, and her mother and grandmother were also kitchen maids. She adored cats and always wanted to go to Lannisport to see the mermaids. She and Sandor split the delicious orange, and he offered to escort her home before he went to bed. She declined, as she still had work in the kitchens, and the other maids would take her home when it was done.

The next day, Joanne Clegane, covered in bruises and holding her pearls, required assistance to walk. She learned the truth of her husband on their wedding night, and she was utterly miserable.


	2. Chapter 2

Clegane's Keep wasn't the most impressive keep in the Westerlands, but it was large enough for Joanne to have her own chambers with her own bed and for that much, she was grateful. She rose with the sun every morning and went to the sept, where she would kneel and clasp her hands and pray extensively to all seven of the gods. After an hour or more of that, she would break her fast. After that, she would look through the garden with a heavy book detailing the medicinal properties of various plants. Then she would return to her room. Sometimes, Gregor would be slobbering drunk and find her. He'd order the servants out and one could hear the desperate pleas a league away. She became more withdrawn as the days rolled on. She never smiled, and eventually stopped visiting the garden. She began looking sloppier. Most notably, her hair around her face spilled out of the top of her braid, as if she had no energy to pull it back any farther. She even ate less. All she did more of was praying and wearing her pearls.

Sandor enjoyed his time with Bess. She acted like his scars weren't there and let him hold her hand. She was pretty, too, with her emerald eyes and her Dornish skin and her raven hair. She wasn't afraid of him and he was happy. Every time he had seen Joanne he got a twinge of pity in his heart. Pity and guilt. Gregor was a mad dog that needed to be put down. He knew it when Gregor shoved his face in a fire. He knew it when Gregor killed their younger sister. And yet he did nothing to put his brother in the grave where he belonged. If he had, a bastard girl wouldn't be walking around Clegane's Keep, beaten, bow-legged, and begging the gods for help.

One day, Gregor was to squire at a tourney. When he was gone, it was as if the entire Keep breathed easier. Sandor decided to visit the kennels. He loved the dogs, and the dogs loved him. On his way there, he met Joanne.

She smiled and said, "You're Sandor, aren't you?"

Sandor nodded cautiously. Why'd she have to ask? Couldn't she tell by the scars she was staring at?

"The servants don't talk much. I find that I'm quite lonely here. Your brother doesn't like to talk much, either."

"Gregor's an idiot," Sandor replied. "He gets a headache every time he has to think." _That's why he hits so many things,_ he wanted to say, but decided against it.

As if she heard him anyway, her smile disappeared and a look of concern took its place. She looked at the left side of his face. The scar tissue gnarled it up like an old tree. No girl could ever fall in love with that face. No girl would ever be happy to marry him. "Is it true?" she asked. "Did Gregor give you-"

"No," he snapped instinctively. "No, my bed, it caught fire. I had candles near. Reading at night. It was a _stupid_ mistake." Gregor wasn't home, but their father was; still nursing his broken wrist. If Sandor told anyone about Gregor and the fire and the toy knight, Father said he would take him to a boat, tie heavy things around his neck, and throw him into the water.

Sandor had a patch of skin on the back of his neck, just below his scalp, that he would scratch to make awful memories like that go away. It had the added benefit of making Gregor and his friends think he had lice. As he gave Joanne this false explanation, he scratched at that patch of skin.

"Careful, now, don't scratch through the skin," Joanne warned. She placed a gentle hand on his scratching one and eased it back to his side. She didn't let go, but continued to hold it to comfort him as she whispered, "If it is Gregor, I won't tell anyone."

She flicked her eyes to his. They were about the same height, though she was older by about four years. Her eyes were warm, full of compassion and understanding like a mother's. Sandor felt a little safer.

He looked around to see if anyone else was near, and when he found no one, he nodded quickly.

She smiled a sad, knowing smile. It matched the warmth in her eyes. "Well," she said, "if it makes you feel better," she pushed her drooping hair away from her face to reveal purple splotches on both sides, "we can be battered together."

Sandor felt sick to his stomach. She didn't deserve this, and Gregor didn't deserve to live. He didn't know whether he wanted to cry or punch the wall.

Seeing the look on his face, Joanne took his hand again and bid him to walk with her. "I want us to be friends, Sandor. I would like it very much. I am your brother's wife, that makes me your new sister."

"I already have-" _No, that's not quite right,_ "-_had_ a sister."

"Did Gregor do that too?" Joanne whispered after a pause.

Sandor didn't care who would see him nod yes this time. He started to cry tears of grief and anger and hatred. "She killed our mother coming out," he explained, "so we named her Elinor, after Mother." He wanted to scratch, make the image of little Elinor's lifeless body go away, but Joanne kept his hand in hers. "She was three years old. Gregor threw her doll in the fire. She would wake up in the middle of the night and cry." He forced himself to stop crying. His father told him that tears never solved anything, but anger would often push one to a solution.

"Besides," Sandor continued resentfully, "she had a big, ugly nose. She would have grown up to be an ugly woman. No one would want to marry her." He was only two years older than her, but he remembered holding her hand as she walked. He remembered letting her wear the surcoat he trained in. He remembered listening to stories with her. He remembered the litter of pups born the day after she was smothered with her pillow. He named the runt Elinor, and made sure she would survive.

"Don't say such things about her," she told him gently while wiping his tears away with her sleeve. "That's no way to honor her memory. It might not even be true. After all, haven't you heard? Ugly babies make beautiful ladies."

She held him for a while. Sandor couldn't remember the last time anyone comforted him like that. He lost his mother at three. His father was cold and uncaring. Gregor was Gregor. Even then, the maids were afraid to touch them.

She pulled away and gave that same knowing smile. "Sandor, I often forget to eat. Mayhaps if I had a companion, it would not so easily slip my mind."

He smiled back. Smiles looked out of place on him. Might be it was the steely color of his eyes, or his awful scars, or perhaps all the terrible things Gregor did made him forget how. But, whatever the case, the smile was better than his hateful, twitchy scowl.

He walked with her to the hall. They ate together and he asked her why she wore her pearls when Gregor could easily ruin the necklace.

I am more than the bruises my husband leaves on me," she answered. "The Seven blessed my father with immeasurable wealth when he had nothing to his name but a title, a tower, and a bastard daughter. By my own knowledge, I can be the difference between anyone's life and death. If I am to survive this trial, I must remember that."

Sandor didn't believe in the Seven or any other gods. It was impossible to live as Gregor's brother and maintain faith in them.

"The Seven never blessed me with shit," he replied frankly.

"They can be sneaky," she said. "In a world awful as this, it's frightening to think they aren't caring for us from afar. Scarier still to think that there aren't any."

Sandor took the hint. The gods were her crutch, and someone as broken as she'd become deserved to have one.

"Mayhaps you survived your fire so that you could help me," Joanne pondered aloud. "Or, could be the other way around. Mayhaps your family learned of my father so I could help you. Nice to believe it wasn't all for nothing."

"What do you know about healing?" He asked timidly after there was a lull in their conversation.

"Quite a bit," she confidently answered. "I can clean wounds, mend broken bones, cure aches and coughs, and help one survive most illnesses."

"Could you... could you ever get rid of...?" his words abandoned him and he had to gesture to his scars to make his question clear.

She looked at him with warm, compassionate, yet apologetic eyes. "I'm afraid there's nothing I or any other can do about scars. They may fade with time, but you'll always have them. I wish it weren't so."

Sandor was disappointed, but something sparked his curiosity. "How _do_ you know about healing?"

A smile spread across her face. "When I was little, I wanted to be a maester. My father took me in his arms and told me, 'Joanie, I wish the world worked that way. It sadly does not, but if you wish to learn, you shall learn!' He had our maester teach me everything he knew. He also hired a woods witch. She was a bitter old woman, but very knowledgable and most of what I know came from her teachings. I have a book, new from the Citidel, about the healing properties of plants and herbs. It was a wedding gift from my father."

"I suppose your gods have a cruel sense of humor."

"I suppose they do," she chuckle before becoming serious again. "Healing is a godly art. Knowing how to save someone from illness or infection, it makes me feel closer to them."

She proposed that they play a game she played with her friends. A lying game. One person would say something and the other would guess if it were the truth or a lie. Joanne was a remarkable liar. Sandor was not.

"The trick is to base it on a truth," she explained. "That way it doesn't come out like a lie. Try it."

"He thought of a truth to use. _Elinor._ He came up with a lie. "Gregor killed one of his friends for snoring too loud."

"I'd believe it. Has he killed any boys from the village?"

"Not yet," he said cautiously.

"Try to fool me again."

"He came up with another one. "I like a kitchen girl named Rhaella."

"Almost had me there," she chuckled. "Tell me truly, what's her name?"

A timid smile stretched its way across Sandor's face. "Bess," he answered. "She has black hair and green eyes. She holds my hand sometimes. She likes cats and mermaids and she smells like garlic and fresh bread."

"She sounds like a sweet girl."

"She is," he nodded. "She watches me practice. She says I can be a great knight someday."

He was much faster than one would think a person his size could be. He learned to use it to his advantage, and it served him well. Perhaps one day he could be a shining knight. He could protect people from those who mean them harm. They would see past his scars, or might even celebrate them. They would write songs and tell stories about the half-faced hero who slayed a wife-beating, child-killing giant at age eleven, and helped others who needed him ever since. _Someday. Perhaps._

"I would like to see you become a great knight, Sandor. But, if you do, promise me something."

"Anything."

"Promise me you won't ever hurt someone who is otherwise being ill-used."

They looked each other in the eye. The could feel every blow, see every bruise, hear every cry for help they had ever witnessed. All the fear and helplessness that resulted in accepting the pain as normal was in their hearts. There was more in that moment of eye contact than there was in a straight week of nightmares.

"Never."


	3. Chapter 3

[Contains violence and a first person account of a panic attack. May be triggering to some]

The girl at the tavern was scrawny. Her fingers were long and thin, and her cheekbones seemed to poke through the skin. She had curly hair kept loosely back, Lannister gold. She was sloppier and less modest than any miller's daughter should be. But more than being thin, blonde, and slovenly, the girl was drunk.

The Dornish told stories of a lord named Jon, who used pretty words and false promises to fuck half the girls in all Westeros, and plenty in the Free Cities. The Dornish Lord Jon couldn't have used his pretty words or false promises better than the young man who had gotten this girl drunk.

His name was Rafford, and he always had pretty words for girls. He used it to find girls not only for himself, but for Gregor and their other friends as well. The girls, of course, never knew this, and would get scared and try to escape. Not all of them survived.

This girl had a better chance. Sandor was there outside the tavern, watching them through a window. He wouldn't let it happen.

Sometime after his fourteenth nameday, Gregor had taken to bringing whores into the Keep. He'd be rough and forceful and when they'd look around for doors or windows, he'd threaten to kill them for trying to cheat him after he paid their price.

Sandor remembered the time he found his brother torturing some prostitute on his knee, and the haunting desperate look the poor woman gave him.

"Leave her be," he'd spoken up. "She doesn't want you."

"_She_ doesn't know that. She's never _had_ me." He rested his hand on her thigh. When she tried to push it away, he grabbed her throat.

"Let her go!"

"Shut your runty mouth, boy. She ain't getting anything I didn't pay for. Now get out of my sight."

"Leave her be."

"That fire melt your brain? Or did your fleas eat it? Leave, before I slash up what's left of your face."

Sandor gave the whore an apologetic look, and left before Gregor could make good on his threats.

He couldn't help that girl, but he could help this one.

Raff partly unlaced her blouse. She didn't mind and was happy enough to let him. She wasn't a buxom girl so it didn't show much, but the exposed skin and her drunken willingness was still there. Some of the men were already whispering about how loose she must be. They sang bawdy songs together, and that couldn't have helped. By the time they got to The Landlord's Daughter, her bodice lost all it's laces and she was left giggling uncontrollably with his hand at her hip. At the "parts of every gentlemen" line, she bit her lip, grinning like an idiot and staring at him. Her face burned a bashful red.

Rafford excused himself, giving the girl some flimsy reason. In truth, he was meeting with friends in the forest to tell them she was properly inebriated and to go over their plan.

Gregor grew bored of whores and had since preferred to ruin the maidens. He stopped bringing them to the Keep after his wedding, as Father demanded, but the village had plenty of dense forest. Sandor found himself wishing his brother would get killed by a wolf or a snake. Watching him die slowly of a snake bite might be as good as killing him.

No, it really wouldn't be.

He didn't know how long Raff would be gone, so as soon he disappeared into the woods, Sandor slipped into the tavern and found the girl.

When she saw him she let out a gasp. "Oh my, your... your face!"

"I know, it's awful and my scars are ugly. I have to get you home."

"I can't go yet!" she exclaimed, slurring her words together. "I'm waiting for Raff."

"Believe me when I say he will pass you around to his friends and gut you like a fish if you say no." He took her wrist. "I need to get you home."

"He'd do no such thin'!" she yelled indignantly as she yanked herself out of his grip. "He _loves_ me. He's goin' to _marry_ me. After I come to his bed, he'll get us a septon and make me his little wife."

_He really is the Dornish Lord Jon, isn't he?_ All he needed was a statue to drag him to the deepest of the seven hells.

"Do you know why girls go missing and turn up dead in the woods?" Sandor asked, trying to make a point. "Raff has friends, and they like girls, but they hate being refused. Girls who say no are killed."

He watched it sink in, but she still looked unsure. He knew what he had to say.

"Do you love Raff enough to fuck ten other men, or die, because he _might_ marry you?"

She finally looked appropriately concerned. "Might be I should get home."

"I'll walk you there. Keep you safe, keep you steady."

Keeping a good grip on her forearm, he helped her to her feet. They took to the path and were well on their way before Rafford got back.

The girl led them, as it was her house. She stumbled a bit, but he steadied her. Sometimes she lost the way, but he was able to take them back the way they came so she could correct herself.

Eventually, they made it to the miller's house. He told the girl's father everything, except that Gregor was part of it. If anyone was going to kill him, it would be the boy who wore the brute's cruelty on his face.

"Men were talking, she probably shouldn't go to any taverns. I didn't see him put anything in her wine," he concluded.

"Wait, aren't you that Clegane lordling? The younger son?"

"I am."

"I suppose it's not in the blood then."

Sandor clenched his jaw. "Could be. Might be it was burned out of me." His voice cut with bitterness.

"Didn't mean no harm, m'lord. Thank you for returning her to me."

"No need for thanks. I was just doing what any _lordling_ ought to do. I'm not afraid of those boys. They can't hurt me."

But he was wrong.

The next day, Bess watched him train. She always did. The first few times, she asked if she should give him her favor. He explained that it was just training and not a real match, so no use for favors or cheering. Nevertheless, she always wished him luck before and told him how brave he was after. It was while she was telling him he was brave that he saw Rafford angrily staring at him and got a nagging feeling that something bad was going to happen.

"Bess, I think you should get back to the kitchens."

She turned to see what caught his eye, and instinctively stepped behind him at the sight of Rafford's anger. She backed away slowly before turning around and running inside.

"She's pretty enough," Raff commented. "I could take _her_ to the woods."

"What would you do in the woods?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Clegane. You took _our_ girl and left us with nothing. You have any idea what all that wine costs?"

Rafford walked closer, and from the corners of his eyes, Sandor could see he was surrounded. None headed for the Keep. _Bess is safe. They won't hurt her. Not yet._ He still had his wooden training sword. He could fight them off for a while. There were about five of them. He might be able to escape with his life, if it were to come to that. It would depend on how trained they were, how prepared. Either way, he wasn't going to he taken without a fight.

He waited for Raff to take one step closer.

And he smacked his knee with his wooden sword.

They all tried to grab him. He backhanded one in the face with his sword hand and elbowed another in the ribs, but the rest were too fast. One had him by his hair and throat. Another twisted the training sword out of his hand. Another still bent his arm behind his back in painful twisted angles. Someone did the same with the other arm. Though he put up an animalistic struggle, he was pinned flat to the ground in the space of three minutes. He felt seven pairs of hands struggling to keep him there.

"Hold him up," Raff commanded, his voice rough and barely restrained.

His ankles and knees stayed pinned, and they lifted his throat and shoulders.

The wooden sword made contact with the side of Rafford's knee. It must have hurt because he seemed unsteady on that leg as he walked toward Sandor. When he stopped, he looked down at Sandor, smirked a smug little smirk that had Sandor wanting to tear the skin off his face, and gave Sandor an angry kick to the groin.

His gut tensed and he felt himself collapse. If he had broken every bone in his arm, it would have hurt less than that. A cry of pain escaped clenched jaws.

"That ought to hold him still for a bit." Rafford spat.

And it did. It was much easier to drag him after that.

They took him behind the walls of the Keep. He smelled smoke.

_No._

_No. No. No. No. No._

_Fuck._

Gregor was throwing wood on a fire.

That was the deepest of the seven hells.

He tried to wrestle free. He tried to kick away. They pushed him down on his right side, half a foot from the fire.

He could feel the heat on his face, drying his eyes.

He kept kicking. If he couldn't escape, he might be able to get them to kill him before shoving him into the flames.

Raff kicked him again, this time in the stomach. Then he heard Gregor.

"Little bitch is easy to spook. He never liked fire."

Were they just trying to scare him? Was that all?

"Besides," he continued, "that other half of his face would look better behind burns."

Sandor's stomach throbbed. He tried to struggle out of it, but he didn't have the energy.

There was a hand at the back of his neck. _Gregor._ He was inching his face nearer to the fire. He could hear himself whimper like a pup.

He wanted to be angry, to be hateful, but he was consumed by fear. He wanted to scream, but he could only cry.

"What's going on here?"

_Joanne._ He almost couldn't match the name to the voice. His mind was in deeper places.

"It doesn't concern you." Only Gregor could speak like that to her. "Be off."

"Is this about that miller's daughter?" her tone was curious and a bit hurt.

"I told you, be off!"

_What does she think she's doing?_ Sandor wondered. She was going to get herself killed. Then it dawned on him. Joanne rarely, if ever, walked outside the walls of the Keep. At this hour, she would normally still be praying in the sept, where she probably wouldn't have heard his initial struggle. Someone told her.

_Bess._

She didn't go back to the kitchens, she went to the sept for the Lady of the House.

None of this would have happened if he hadn't escorted that miller's daughter home.

_I'm going to die. And she's going to die because of me if she doesn't leave._

But she didn't.

"Gregor, why do you need those other girls? I'm your wife."

He let go of Sandor and turned to face her at his full height. "I'll be a widower soon enough if you don't get."

"But why must you be so cruel?" She paused, perhaps taking his hand. "I only mean to say, I've shared your bed; I know what you like and how you like it. And I would come willingly."

There was a pause were no one said a thing. Even those holding Sandor down seemed to go seconds without breathing.

"So surely," she continued, "no need to hurt the boy."

They still held him down, unsure of exactly what to do. Raff was the first to speak up.

"Milord, you don't mean to say-"

"You heard my wife. Let him be."

They all let go of him. Sandor stumbled away from the fire. His heart was beating hard. Harder than it was supposed to. He couldn't even his breathing. His stomach still hurt, but now so did his chest. He felt dizzy, and had trouble seeing straight. He groped at the walls, trying to keep himself upright. Bess found him.

She supported him, letting him lean on her as they walked.

"Let's get you to your chambers. Then I'll get you some water and the maester."

He could hear his heart beating. He could _feel_ it beating. He feared it would burst.

She helped him up the stairs, opened his door, and set him on his bed.

He grabbed her hand before she could turn away.

"Please don't leave."

She placed a reassuring hand on his. "You need water, and the maester. I have to."

"Have someone else go," he begged. "Please, _please_. I need you."

He felt vulnerable, and she could see that. She called for more servants to fetch water and Maester Emrys.

Sandor didn't realize how much he was trembling until he tried drinking a cup of water. Bess kept him from spilling or choking. The maester checked his pulse, and grew worried. He checked other vitals and asked his questions.

"You should rest," he advised. "You seem to only be excited. Let yourself rest, and you should feel better on the morrow, or even tonight."

The maester then turned to Bess. Her hands were dark and smelled faintly of garlic and they held those of her champion. Yes, everyone in the Keep heard of that, except, mayhaps, the other Cleganes. Sandor saved the girl and swore to save her from anyone who meant her harm. She saw past his scars and tried to convince all the servants of his kindness and bravery. Sandor was the better brother, Maester Emrys knew that much, but the boy was only eleven years old. Would he handle his rage just the same at age fifteen? There was simply no way of knowing yet.

"My dear," the maester addressed her, "mayhaps it would be easier for Lord Sandor to rest if-"

"He needs me."

The look on the young Clegane's face was enough to confirm that. His eyes were clearly still the eyes of a child. Damaged and ill-used and so full of hate he was, but still only a child of eleven who surely didn't deserve Gregor's cruelty.

"Very well, let me get him something to ease his heart."

He left and returned with a tea of chamomile and honey.

"This should help."

Bess helped Sandor drink it. The way she looked at him, one would never guess half of his face was covered in a tangle of hideous scars. The maester hoped that this boy's father could find a good wife for him: a loving woman who wouldn't mind his face. He would surely deserve it.

.-.-.

_Notes:_

If this took longer than other chapters, it's because the entire thing got deleted by mistake and had to be typed up all over again. yep, that's right, it had to be typed up from scratch. I hope you love me.

I took some liberties with the Westeros worldbuilding, so please don't hate me for that. the Dornish Lord Jon is supposed to be an expy of the Spanish legendary figure, Don Juan. Don Juan was a noble that, to keep things short and to the point, lacked morals and the ability to keep it in his pants. The Mozart opera based on the legend, Don Giovanni takes it a bit further and has the Don order his manservant to keep a log of all the women he sleeps with. In all versions of the legend, he invites a statue of a man he killed to dinner. The statue actually shows up and tells him he must change his ways or all hope for his salvation is lost. In most versions he refuses and the statue drags the Don to hell. The song "The Landlord's Daughter" is also a legit song. It actually comes from the 1973 film_ The Wicker Man_. It was based on Scottish drinking/bawdy songs. And that line the girl smiles and blushes at? "And when her name is mentioned / the parts of every gentleman do stand up / at attention!" So she, drunker than she'll probably ever be again, thinks the most romantic thing a guy can sing about her is that the very idea of her gives any and every man a massive boner. If the narration sounds contemptuous, it's because the idea that anyone would take that as a compliment seems really dumb to an eleven-year-old Sandor Clegane.

So, here we start to get into the things that Sandor and Joanne need each other to survive. Expect things to get dark.


	4. Chapter 4

Sandor didn't think he would ever feel safe with someone behind him, that close to his neck, but there she was.

Joanne swabbed the wound clean.

"You took off the top of the skin," she explained. "You're not bleeding, and that's a small miracle in itself."

Sandor had been having terrible nightmares. He needed them to go away. He couldn't survive the fire.

"I read that in Essos, they've discovered that sometimes when the mind is hurt or ill, it attacks the body," Joanne explained. "It's already so broken that it needs to keep itself from breaking more."

He probably should have asked the maester, but the old man didn't know about his bad habit. _He doesn't have to know._ Joanne knew, and she was just as qualified to take care of it as Maester Emrys. Might be she scratched herself, as well. He'd never seen her do so. She could be good at hiding it, or she might have a stronger sense of self control than him.

Either way, she rescued him and he still had to thank her, and apologize for getting her into his mess.

"You saved me from them."

"I did," she replied matter-of-factly, looking through his hair for self-inflicted wounds on his scalp. She gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You're my friend, Sandor, and I will use all my power and influence to keep you from harm."

"Did you really limp to your room that night?" he asked.

She let out a bitter chuckle. "Well, no septa ever told me I would have to do my wifely duties in a forest before, or that it would hurt as much as it does, but they could have killed you. Don't feel guilty for it, Sandor. You have as much a right to live as any among us."

After looking through all his hair, she held it up, exposing the wound. She smeared a small bit of something on it, thick and sweet-smelling.

"Honey?" he asked.

"To prevent infection," she explained. When she finished rubbing a thin layer on the scratch, she let his hair down and parted it the way he liked. She swept the hair over his scars, covering them as well as she could. He probably should have been embarrassed. She was fixing his hair as if he were a highborn lady, but he felt no shame in letting her. Her hands were gentle and motherly, and her fingertips still smelled like honey. Her hands would never hurt him or let him be hurt. They were made of warmth and tenderness. It was truly a shame that she couldn't be a maester. She had the right personality to teach lessons and heal and give advice, and nobody hit maesters.

She turned to face him. "You shouldn't hurt yourself."

"I try not to."

"Well," she placed a hand on his forearm, "if you do *this* instead," she gently squeezed, "you won't need to scratch. You'll remember a friend taking care of you, instead of Gregor and fires and other bad things."

He nodded. "I'll remember that."

"Before you go, I should tell you something."

"What?"

"I... I may be... I could be carrying a child, mayhaps."

"A child?"

"It could be, or might be not. I missed my blood, but I have also been fasting, so it might be nothing at all."

"Your blood?"

"Some call it _moonblood_," she explained. "I think that's silly. The moon fills thirteen times a year, and even the most fertile and well-fed women only bleed twelve times. She bleeds because she doesn't have a baby, that is, if she is able."

"Does it hurt?"

"It can, and usually does."

He thought of Bess, that sweet girl with garlicky hands who made rosemary bread just for him, stabbed in the gut, bleeding and writhing in pain. He knew that the blood came out between the girl's legs, but he couldn't picture her displaying that. The idea of her lying down like that made him... _nervous._

Joanne seemed to be lost in her own thoughts. "I never thought I'd be afraid to have a child. I am quite thin, and complications can kill, but that's not what scares me."

"Then what?" he asked, genuinely concerned.

"After thinking on it, I realized that, should I have a child, it will go one of two ways. Either the child will grow to to be like the father, or it will be nothing like him, in which case he'd surely hate it."

"I won't let Gregor hurt your baby."

She flicked her eyes up to his. "Don't worry, I may not have a baby for a while. But I imagine your little nieces and nephews would never have so much as a bump or bruise under your protection."

"Never," he swore.

She smiled and patted his hand. "You'll be a good man someday. You're already on your way there."

Bess liked to tell him how brave and skilled he was, and it always had him swelling with pride. This was something different. She didn't call him brave, she called him good. So many feared his scars and how they distorted his face. Others still cowered away from the tall eleven-year-old who happened to be the brother of Gregor Clegane. Joanne knew, and after all the looks of fear and people who couldn't bring themselves to look, it almost made him cry.

"Thank you," he told her.

"What for?"

_For keeping my secrets, for letting me cry, for taking care of me, for keeping me safe, for being my friend for calling me good, for parting my buggering hair..._ There were too many reasons to list, so he gave his best and shortest answer: "All of it. Everything you have done for me and everything you will do."

She gave another compassionate smile. "No need to thank me. It didn't cost me a thing."

He nodded in acknowledgement and left. Should she have a child, she would be a good mother.

When he visited Bess again, she was trying her hardest to contain herself. Giggles spilled out of her mouth as boiling water spills out of a pot. She managed to control herself enough to greet him. Sandor's curiosity got the best of him; he had to ask what was so funny.

"My sister, she taught me a dirty song. It's about a boy-whore pretending to be a tinker." Her giggling hadn't gotten any better, and it got in the way of her words, but it brought a sparkle to her green eyes. It was lovely.

"Ma said I shouldn't sing it in front of boys," she continued after controlling her snorts, "but I can sing it for you, if it please you."

He wanted to hear what could make her laugh so much. He also wanted to hear a bawdy song sung by someone other than an older boy. So he nodded yes.

She cleared her throat and began to sing:

_"There was a tinker, lived of late_  
><em>Who walked the streets of rye<em>  
><em>And bore his pack upon his back<em>  
><em>Patches and plugs did cry.<em>  
><em>'O, I have brass... within my bag..."<em>

The two then started to crack up laughing, but Bess brought herself under control and continued.

_"My hammer's full of metal..."_

It took her a bit longer to recover from that line.

"_And as to skill, I well can clout,_  
><em>And mend a broken kettle."<em>

The rest of the song was a string of euphemisms involving a maiden's broken kettle. As laughable as it all was, the end was undoubtedly the funniest.

_"Says she 'It hath endured some knocks_  
><em>And more it may, I know<em>  
><em>I'm sure a large, large nail will hold<em>  
><em>If it were struck in so.'"<em>

Might be that wasn't the end, but that was as far as she could get before almost falling over laughing. Sandor himself held a hand over his mouth, trying to keep the chuckles inside.

Oh, what is it about having vague minimal knowledge of what happens between lovers or whores and their customers that made joking about it so funny? And why was it especially so for the young, those barely more than children?

Sandor didn't know then and it was just as like as not that he would never know, but he did learn something that day. It wasn't just Joanne. Bess, and perhaps every girl who ever lived, looked prettier when she laughed.

.-.-.

_Notes:_

This one's a shorter, lighter chapter, to make up for that last one and what's to come. Hope you enjoyed it.

Also, like with the last chapter, "The Tinker of Rye" is a real song, and it is also from the 1973 film _The Wicker Man_. Maybe I should stop using _Wicker Man_ songs, but they fit Westeros ridiculously well. Anyway, it's a great song, and I suggest you listen to it.

I honestly have no clue if Joanne is really pregnant or not, nor if I want her to be. It you want it to go one other way or another, let me know via review or PM.


	5. Chapter 5

Joanne wasn't just skipping too many meals. She _was_, in fact, carrying her husband's child. She informed Sandor of it over a late breakfast.

Sandor stopped chewing his rosemary bread. He couldn't say he was shocked, but it wasn't what he hoped for. He wished it was a false alarm, that she wouldn't become even more vulnerable and helpless and easy to hurt, but her eyes were sure and solemn and her tone was just the same.

Gregor wasn't there to hear the announcement. He was out training. Joanne scheduled her prayers in such a way that they would end when her husband left the Keep. Sandor scheduled his training the same way. They broke their fast together.

After he responded with only worried swallowing, Joanne continued speaking. "I suppose I should want a son. Gregor would prefer a son to a daughter, wouldn't he? But what would I name the child? Certainly not Gregor, after his father. Could you imagine what a horror it would be to have _two_ Gregor Cleganes in this world?" She gave a helpless chuckle. "Maester Emrys has a nice name, and he's kind enough to name a child after. Yoren's a handsome name, and I like Willem, as well."

It's possible she went on to talk about other names she liked, but Sandor was stuck in his own thoughts. He imagined her thin body swollen and covered with bruises Gregor left because she was not to his liking. He imagined her trying to apologize for something she couldn't control, only for Gregor to knock all her teeth out and make her wear _those_ pearls around her neck. He imagined her dying in the birthing room. _No._ He lost a mother and a sister and half of his face, he couldn't lose Joanne, too.

"Sandor, could you answer me something?"

Still unable to bring himself to speak, he nodded.

"If I did have a daughter, would Gregor hurt her? In any way? Not just bruises or broken bones but... other ways?"

Sandor wasn't quite sure what she meant. How could one hurt someone without hurting them? But then he noticed how she said _hurt_ like she meant to say something else. What else could she mean by that? How does one hurt a girl without...

It struck him. He understood what she wanted to say: _"Would he ever touch her as no man should ever touch his daughter?"_

Gregor already hurt enough girls like that, but his own daughter? Sandor wouldn't be surprised. The idea of it sickened him, and filled him with a burning anger.

He raised his eyes to meet Joanne's. "No," he answered. "I'd kill him before he could even try."

He was ready to hit something, kill someone, perhaps. No, not kill, to cripple would be enough.

Joanne placed a steady on his trembling one. "I believe you," she told him. There was something soothing about the perpetual certainty in her voice. She always knew, and one could have faith in her because of it. _Is that what she finds in those gods of hers?_ he wondered to himself. The stone faces in the sept always seemed harsh and mocking to him. Did others see them sure and honest? Could Joanne be the Mother made flesh? _No, that's stupid. Gods would never choose to suffer as mortals do._

He focussed on her mouth. Her teeth, in particular. She often hid them when she spoke. They looked as if they were hastily shoved into her gums, so crooked they were, and she didn't like others staring. _You and me both._ He wondered if those teeth would ever tear Gregor's throat out. He decided he would like to see that happen. It would feel just. But no. Peaceful, demure, waifish Joanne would never do such a thing.

Her grip on his hand tightened slightly.

"Doubtless you would be my child's greatest protector," she declared, giving him a sad, yet compassionate smile to match her sad, yet compassionate eyes. "Sandor, remember what I said about complications. Women sturdier than myself have died from difficult births."

"But you won't."

Her smile melted away and only sadness and solemnity remained. "I _hope_ I won't. You ought to know that I may not survive. If I don't, but my child does, I ask that you look after it. If I die, I only wish to know my child will not grow to be Gregor's plaything... or Gregor."

Sandor hated the idea of her dead, and hated admitting she could die even more. But he nodded yes and swore to her any children she gave birth to would be under his protection and raised in the light of the Seven.

The smile returned and she patted his hand. "Thank you, Sandor." She paused before continuing. "You're so weary and quick to anger that sometimes I forget you are only eleven years old."

Later, he found himself with Bess. Joanne's question still haunted him. _Not just bruises or broken bones... other ways?_ It sickened him, put a bad taste in his mouth, and even broke his heart. How terrible could a person's life be for her to feel the need to ask that question? What kind of world-what kind of man-stood back and let that happen? How many more mothers had to worry about that? He wondered if it ever happened to Bess.

"What's the worst thing your father ever did to you?"

"M' father?" she asked. "Never scolded or laid a hand on any of us. Always too tired and a wee bit too gentle. It was m' mother I worried about."

"What did she do?"

"Well, the worst of it was when she chased me down and beat me with a whisk. Told me I was not to be stealing the Lord and Lady's cakes from the kitchens. It left red marks and batter all over m' wrists, arms, legs, anythin' she could reach. I cut the very twigs that whisk was made of, so it was like I cut my own switch."

Though he had been through much worse, as no one could argue, the brutality of the punishment described caused Sandor to wince empathetically.

Bess looked at him with mischief in her grassy eyes. "I hafta say," she admitted, "those cakes were worth it. They were those raspberry cakes with the bit o' lemon yer lady mother loved."

He was too young to remember his mother when she died, he couldn't even remember whether she was born a Payne or a Lorch, but it her love of lemon raspberry cakes was well known. One of his earliest memories of his father was of the man sadly staring at such cakes, seemingly unable to eat them.

"Why do you ask, m'lord Sandor? What's the worst yer father's ever done?"

_He threatened to drown me like an unwanted pup more than once,_ he thought. He wanted to scratch, but he grabbed his forearm instead. He didn't have to hurt himself, and if he meant to protect his future little niece or nephew, he should break those bad habits. "Mine never laid a hand on me either." _Base it on a truth. That way it doesn't come out like a lie._ "He scolded me a little, but never acted on it."

"He never sent you out for a switch? Perhaps tha's just a smallfolk thing then."

As they walked together within the walls of the castle, Bess would stop for every cat that came their way. She would pet them and scratch them where they liked. The sudden movements wafted the familiar garlic scent from her hands. When Sandor asked about her fondness of the creatures, a smile stretched across her lovely brown face. "You seem quite fond o' dogs," she said. "Cats aren't so bad, either, if you give 'em reason to like you."

Someone warned them that Gregor and a few of his friends had been drinking. They walked the rest of the way holding hands.

Sandor left Bess at her family's dwelling and went on to his own rooms. It was getting late, and he wanted to train early. On his way, passing Joanne's room, he heard her cry in pain. Her bedmaid, just up the stairs, must have also heard it. She ran downstairs as fast as her legs could carry her, calling Maester Emrys' name all the way. Sandor, on the other hand, opened the door.

It was hard to tell what caught his eye first; Joanne trying to pick herself up off the floor with blood spilling out of her mouth and bruises all over her face, or Gregor standing over her with alcohol on his breath and his arms ready to grab her and hit her again. Sandor decided he was having none of it.

"Don't hurt her!" he barked.

"Sandor, no," Joanne whispered

Gregor seemed to agree, even though he couldn't have possibly heard her. "What I do with her is no concern of yours, runt. Now get!"

Sandor saw that his brother tried to unlace his breeches and only got halfway down. _That's what he's here for._ It only angered him further.

"You idiot," he seethed. "She's your perfect wife!"

"Sandor, go," Joanne warned, near silently.

"She hasn't even looked at another man since your wedding. She's never spoke a word against you. She's kinder to you than you deserve."

Gregor wasn't even looking at his wife. He was staring at his brother with enough hate and anger to spare for an army.

"_Please,_" she begged, barely more than a breath.

"For the Gods' sake, she's carrying your child!"

His drunk eyes snapped from his insolent brother to his terrified wife.

"I wasn't trying to hide anything," she swore. "Please don't be angry. I was trying to tell you but then you... well, y-you came in and you..."

She didn't need to continue. They were interrupted by the maester's appearance, followed by Gregor and Sandor's father, whose wrist had healed. Father was older than most fathers. Being the less-than-handsome son of a one-legged man only recently knighted did not make finding a bride any easier. By the time he found a maiden to be his wife, he was over forty years old. Some even said that the marriage was a punishment for the young girl. Nevertheless, his age combined with his notable height had a way of making him look stern.

"Oh my!" was Maester Emrys' reaction to Joanne's battered face. He had a servant help him escort her to his chambers, where he could help with the pain and swelling. As she left with them, Sandor noticed her pearls were still all in place. _Maybe she is a goddess,_ he thought to himself. _Do goddesses bruise?_

Father turned to Gregor. "Enough of that," he scolded. "Too much more of this could kill her. How would we explain her death to her father? To the Lannisters? How do you intend on reaching knighthood by killing a lord's bastard daughter?"

Sandor could only stare at his father in shock. Of all the things wrong with hurting Joanne, all the things wrong with killing her, the only one he thought worth mentioning was the fact that her death would make knighthood harder to earn.

"And as for you-" Father directed at Sandor. He might have meant to say something about picking fights with his brother, but it didn't matter. Sandor was already walking away. He didn't want to hear anymore of the filth that came out of his father's mouth. Perhaps he'd be sent out to cut a switch in the morning, like a peasant boy. He didn't care.

In the morning, he was not sent out for a switch. He felt like he should be grateful for it, but he had no such feeling, just a bitter anger. Perhaps it would go away after training.

He trained for longer than he realized. Gregor hadn't even left his room. Supposedly, he was nursing an awful hangover. _Bastard deserves it._

There was even more hair than usual spilling out of Joanne's braid, and she kept her head down. From the side, all one could see of her face was a nose poking out from what looked like a lazily pulled-back curtain of bronze hair.

Purplish splotches covered the upper half her left cheek and surrounded her eye. Bruises plagued the right side as well. Most notably on her jaw, where it fell on or, more like than not, was smashed into a wall or table or some other surface. There was also a prominent one high on her throat, doubtlessly left by her husband's thumb.

She seemed tired when she greeted him. They spoke of her visit to the maester as if nothing happened the day before. But something did happen, and it was eating away at him. He had to ask.

"Why didn't you want me there?"

She stared at him for a moment, and her eyes began to well up with tears. She kept herself composed enough to speak as they fell down her face.

"He would have killed you," she said. "You're my only true friend here, and you're the only one I would trust to care for my child. If I suffer, I suffer, but I can't lose you."

Many times before, Joanne would place a hand on Sandor's to calm him down. As her composure left her and she dissolved into sobs, he returned to favor.

She looked back at him. So often she had been his strength. So often she had been his support. He tried to imitate her steady certainty in his looks and his voice.

"I won't die, then."

Joanne smiled at the gesture. She glanced at his steely eyes. They had seen so much, more than they should have. There was a tone of sadness and a spark of anger that shouldn't ever belong to a boy as young as eleven in those eyes. Despite all the times he must have scrunched his face in anger, they were still the shape of a child's eyes. It only made the way they cut like swords more unsettling. Now they also displayed gentle compassion for a friend. It didn't wash away the sharp anger, but it was a pleasant change nonetheless.

"I've done some thinking, about names," she said to him, "and I think there is something you would like to know."

"What?"

"If this baby is a girl, I've decided what I would want to name her."

"You have?"

She nodded her head. "If that is the case, I want her name to be Elinor."

A smile began to grow on his face. It still didn't look at home among his mess of scars or his sharp gray eyes, but it was nice to see him light up like that. He was touched. He was happy.

-.-.-

Notes:

Gee, this chapter was a bugger to write. I kept going back and rewording things. I hope you like it, and my effort wasn't a waste.

Also, interesting thing about child molestation (and by interesting, I mean tragic): in the Middle Ages/Renaissance era, children were treated like miniature adults, and if it was found out that a child was being molested, the child would be punished for it. If I recall correctly, the music teacher that molested a young Catherine Howard testified against her at her trial, claiming the molestation was proof of her adulterous nature. Also, up until the 1970s, parental incest was often thought to be something the child made up. GRRM's work may be gritty, mentioning time and time again just how terrible things were, but I don't think the not-so-glaring anachronism is that big of a deal. After all, everyone in ASOIAF seems pretty down with oral, pun totally intended, which didn't gain most of its modern popularity in England until the 1830s, and even then it was considered something very kinky and the most expensive service you could get from a prostitute. In fact, the idea of it was so mind-blowing that men would actually pay to see prostitutes do it to each other so they could decide if it was something they would be into.

Anyway, Thank you to everyone who reviewed and/or followed. You guys are the best, please keep reviewing.


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